Dear Executioner
by CelestialReckoning
Summary: "No one ever taught you how to love. Your war paint and scarred hands could never hold her like she deserves." :: A collection of assorted Draven / Soraka drabbles I've written over the years, ranging from slow burn, conflict, AUs ... you name it. Cover art commissioned from MotherofBees.
1. memories

_Piltovian scientists have found that a humanoid's sense of smell is universally connected closely to memory. Some scents have the power to awaken memory at even the slightest provocation in individual._

Soraka remembers this fact as she sits before the hearth. She'd read it in a throwaway article once upon a time. How long had it been since she'd been gone from her grove? A month? Three months? _A year?_

The starchild doesn't know. All she knows is that the flames that dance before her are far from comforting, even with the presence of another beside her. Draven's babbling had long fallen on deaf ears.

For instead, she simply stares, amber reflecting gold as the tongues of inferno stretch and spread their fiery limbs.

An ear flicks as it crackles. In Soraka's mind, it echoes back as a snap of bone. The heat is unwelcome, suffocating and reminiscent of watching all that one loves burn. Underneath the roar of the fire, logs are twisted and eaten at by hungry tongues of flame, and she shudders to think that the Noxians did the same to her people.

The smoke reeks of flesh and carnage to her, and the starchild's stomach drops as the screams of innocents echo in her ears.

Soraka hadn't noticed it when his voice had trailed off, and is only brought to a more pleasant reality when a strong arm hooks itself around her comparatively frail shoulders. Those flighty eyes of hers steal a glance towards the executioner's face, and even if his eyes are facing forwards and his chest is puffed out with easy confidence, a part of her hopes that Draven is concerned.

He doesn't even budge when Soraka's weight presses itself against his side. She earns a laugh from him, and the starchild thinks it's the loveliest sound she's heard yet.

"Watch it with that horn, girlie."

An eye sneaks itself open, and she elbows his side softly in response. Maybe even the Glorious Executioner had his own demons. After all, he was still mortal, was he not?

Relaxing under his grip, Soraka exhales comfortably as she feels herself melt against Draven's side. The faint smell of fur and skin tickles her nose. Draven laughs, but it's lower this time. In the dark of the inn, the starchild feels her anxieties loosen their hold on her mind, if by a little bit.

 _When was the last time someone had held her like this?_

Soraka's mind wanders, and she finds herself wondering if goodwill dwells even in the hearts of executioners.


	2. alive

_An entry in the travel diary of the starchild …_

* * *

The executioner and I have come to be friendly with one another.

I write this as I feel the slumbering weight of his strong body against my side, the countrysides of Noxus rolling by our caravan's window.

He is undeniably Noxian. This, I've found, is rather hard a trait to ignore. Draven, as he is called, is big-headed, proud, violent, and very, _very_ dangerous. Those axes of his and their bite on my palm are testament to that.

But he is kind enough to me, in a rather _Noxian_ way. When he meets my needs, it through demands. He bullies others if it means that I will have food and shelter, and I am not yet sure if that is a desirable trait.

I have come to believe that Draven is someone that does things not out of the kindness of his heart, but for something in return. I believe that _something_ is my companionship. I find it hard to believe that many others, Noxian or not, are even able to put up with his arrogance and force of personality.

But there are times when he looks at me and I feel his gaze soften, and it is as if my entire is on fire. The thought of him sends a rapid thumping through mortal bone, a rushing of blood that lights each nerve ablaze in righteous desire to help, to foster the good I see in him.

And it _scares_ me.

But it also makes me feel inexplicably, inexorably _alive_.


	3. patching up

It's become commonplace between them. A ritual, of sorts. To tend to one another long after the day had drawn the proverbial curtains on their duties. With it came the natural intimacy that only exposing one another could provide. For Soraka, it's the pale line that traces its way below her rib-cage. For Draven, the gore and viscera that smears against calloused flesh. A damning mark that he had slain the wicked today.

"Half of this isn't yours, is it, dear executioner? I'm having trouble discerning what is a tattoo and what is a wound." The celestial works her hands into the thick of it, a damp rag finding purchase against hard muscle. Her chin rests against the nape of his neck, voice low and lips curled into the barest of smirks.

"This? C'mon, starshine. When it comes to men, in my own category! The category of _Draaaaven_ , and the only thing Draven _doesn't_ do is _bleed_."

It was amusing – to think that, once, such closeness to a man of his status would have disgusted her. Once upon a time, she sat in the lofty heavens, pure but stupid. She wonders if a part of her holds some of her celestial idiocy. But she remembers the _wolf's_ face, and is reminded of the evil that dwells in the heart of men.

To exact violence was never an easy decision. But it could be the correct one, realizes Soraka. To stand idle was to let innocents die. To stand idle was to be cruel.

She wonders if Draven thinks the same. He was violent, yes, but his choice of prey was far from guiltless. The camaraderie between them was simple. A classic tale of polar opposites. Push, pull. Light, dark. Ionian, Noxian. Life, death.

The executioner seizes under her, cursing Soraka below his breath before he grapples at his back. Stubbornly does she push away his hand, thumb pressing into the meat of his wound so that she may test its heat. It elicits another curse, softer this time. This time, Soraka laughs, realizing that perhaps he really is human after all. "Let us get you patched up, then …"


	4. familiar

This was familiar, Soraka realized.

The clamor of the patrons around her, the mingling smell of booze and hot food that lingered under the thick clouds of cigarette smoke, and most familiar of all, the presence of the executioner. Indeed, Soraka thought, how amusing that they'd found themselves in this situation again.

But tonight, their situation was a bit different. Draven had never passed up the opportunity to be recognized by a fan, but Soraka had observed his attention straying. He hadn't even been showboating quite that much, which was entirely _unlike_ Draven.

In fact, their time spent in the company of strangers wasn't entirely prolonged at all, for soon Soraka found herself in a stool beside him, drinks sliding down the counter and into their awaiting palms.

The pair laughed over mead and recounted the day's travels; the strange bird they'd seen overhead, a busker the starchild had insisted on patronizing, or even how she'd had nearly taken Draven's hand off with her horn in one of their sparring sessions.

And as they continued their prattling conversations, the drinks continued to come, with five or so between them ( three for Draven, in fact ). Soraka had reminded herself at the beginning of the night to pace herself, but liquor seemed to have quite the hold on her mortal brain now, a cloying grasp she hadn't quite experienced in her prime.

Eventually their bodies became heavy under the stupor of drink, swaying slightly as if swept by a breeze. Soraka's shoulder came to rest on Draven's own, mind muddy as she felt the words on her lips die away. When had the executioner become so _loud_?

She could hear him with her ear against his bicep, voice a thunderous roar through mortal flesh. She shuddered at the vibration it gave off. Were all mortals so noisy, or had the drink taken its hold on him too?

When Draven shrugs his shoulders, Soraka quickly peels herself from him, though neither of the two seemed to mind the prolonged contact when it had lasted. She manages a smile, eyes squinting as the executioner's face swam in her view.

In the low-light of the inn, she could barely make out how his hair fell past his crown, or the glint of his teeth in the lamplight. Had his eyes always been so _dark_?

"You're so interesting." Soraka blurted, a wobbly smirk distorting her words.

She spotted Draven's teeth through the blur, his face becoming larger as he leaned forwards with what she thought was a smirk. "I am an interesting man, Raka. I'm the posterchild of Noxus, you know, the number one rags-to-riches story in the nation. You should be impressed, be proud of it!"

Soraka holds herself upright for a minute, letting the words process as she looks to him with her eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

The mighty noxian's head shakes itself, a boisterous laugh echoing a hard slap on the bar counter. "Why, even the Glorious Executioner was a mere boy once!" Those words pull Soraka closer, chin resting in the crook of her palm as she strains to hear his impending tale.

"Before Noxus, Basilich was a monster in itself! It was just me and Darius, my brother and I against the world. It was fate that I became the popular man that I am today, did you know that? The one and only Draven doesn't even need parents of his own to survive against all odds!" Even with the swimming vision and his booming voice, Soraka could spy the smile on Draven's face, watching as it loosened after he spoke. Even while inebriated, she realized how little she truly knew about him.

Drunk as she was, the starchild still had a heart, her hand creeping along Draven's forearm and coming to rest against his wrist. He jerks away after a moment's hesitation, laughing, though this time it sounds nervous.

"Conqueror of all odds and devilishly handsome, who else but Draaaaven?" Professes the executioner, drowning his words with another swig from his drink. Soraka feels her lips sink into a frown, head tilting whilst she too takes a sip from her own stein.

How different were they really? Long ago had the stars become silent, her kin abandoning her for her transgressions. It was hard to cope with the silence. Forsaken from the stars, Soraka was lost in a world where the simplest of things she struggled with were merely a way of life for others, including Draven.

But right now, the starchild had no time to worry about this, for the alcohol still pulls at her mind, and she finds her spirit bolstered. Leaning back against the executioner, she once more lavishes him with drunken compliments she'd soon come to regret in the morning. Draven laughs once more and she feels her skin glow under the torchlight.

Maybe _he_ was worth learning more about.


	5. five years

An AU wherein Soraka, after becoming assigned to Draven, becomes a prison medic under the Noxian banner.

* * *

Five years.

Five years had not particularly been kind to the starchild as she walked the grubby halls of the Noxian prison.

Hadn't Soraka walked this path before? Long ago, hadn't she too come fresh-faced, flanked by guards, and eager to better the world? This time, she is alone, gait even and dare one say … comfortable. Her helmeted head was held high, the steady _clink, clink_ of her armor punctuated lowly over the cries of the incarcerated.

This was her calling now, to be the sole beacon of light in this forsaken place. To the prisoners, Soraka was either a harbinger of doom … or their salvation. Today she is neither, merely a ghost drifting through the halls. Today, the life of another would end, and Soraka would be there to observe it.

The celestial shoulders a door aside, the harsh glare of sunlight and the roar of the arena's crowd making her head spin. Between the cries for blood and the glitz and glamor, one truly never got used to it. Soraka wasn't used to much of anything these days.

He stands a few paces away, and even now does the sight make Soraka's pulse quicken, her hoofsteps possessing that slight tremble when he turns to look at her with that surefire, cocky smirk.

" **Took you long enough, starshine.** "

There's a smile, natural albeit nervous. They're standing shoulder-to-shoulder now, and Soraka allows her eyes to fall before their charge near the center of the arena, a battered Noxian youth with many a count of assault and theft on his head.

One must die to benefit the many. The stars would mourn him, but his victims would not. Part of Soraka was thankful that their voices had long become silent for her.

She feels him beside her, unsheathing his axes and reveling in the crowd's intoxicating screams for justice, for blood.

Soraka presses a cold kiss to his jaw.

" **I'm right behind you, dear executioner."**


End file.
